


We See What We Want To See

by NikitaSunshine



Category: Homeland
Genre: Advent Calendar 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikitaSunshine/pseuds/NikitaSunshine
Summary: This story takes place after season 6 on a single evening in mid December 2017.Franny and Carrie are coping with their first (second?) Christmas after Quinn’s death (death?), each in her own way.Two chapters.Meant to be consistent with canon.Interpret as you wish.Posted for Advent Calendar 2017 on December 9.





	1. What You Wished For

**Author's Note:**

> As elim and I were writing our stories, which we came up with independently before we met, we realized mine was essentially a tiny excerpt of hers. You don’t have to read one to understand the other, and you can easily think of them as free-standing. They aren’t necessarily entirely consistent, but I wanted to acknowledge the overlap. 
> 
> This is dedicated to elim_garak and Gnomecat. Thank you for the new friendship, the support, the insights, the laughs, and the cat pictures. And to Frangi. Thank you for organizing, and for everything else. And for Mystery Friend- we’ll see if you ever find this. :)

Franny’s antsy, holding her mom’s hand. They’ve been standing in this line _forever._ And she has school tomorrow. _And_ she still has to take a bath… She didn’t really want to come see Santa this year. She doesn’t believe in Santa anymore. Or fairy tales. Or super heroes. She overheard Aunt Maggie telling her mom she needs to be a child a little while longer. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she didn’t like the sound of it. She wasn’t a child, if by child you mean believing in the tooth fairy, and happy endings, and talking animals. Pffft. Why would you want your kid to believe in things that aren’t real? 

And her mom agreed. She didn’t tell her these things weren’t real, but she didn’t try to convince her otherwise. Her mom was different than other parents. In lots of ways. She couldn’t cook, but she knew how to use a gun. She couldn’t draw or do art, but the wall in her secret office (don’t tell!) was covered with pictures of people and newspaper and strings of all different colors. So it wasn’t her mom who made her come today. She wanted nothing to do with it. But Uncle Max _really_ wanted them to come out tonight, to do something extra “Christmasy.” And Mom said that Uncle Max had been a hero to them this year, had taken good care of them. He babysat her all the time, especially when her mom had to work late. He often even stayed over these days.

See, when Quinn died… But she’s not supposed to talk about that. She does talk to Hop, though. Yes, talking to stuffies is _totally_ a baby thing. But Hop is different. He isn’t just any stuffie. He saw everything that happened. He was there when the bad men came with the guns in the big trucks with the bright lights. He was there when Quinn tried to make them go away. And he was there when those men dragged Quinn away from her. Her mom tried to hide it from her, but she saw. And she saw his sad and scared face. And it was the last time she ever saw him.

So she and Hop talk. And they remember. The fun times. The cookies. The ladybugs. And sometimes Hop remembers things that she almost forgot. Like the time Quinn fed them both ice cream _after they brushed their teeth._ And Hop doesn’t look sad when they talk about him. He just looks like his normal rabbit stuffie self. 

They’re almost at the front of the line now. She can see Santa’s face more clearly. He’s smiling and talking to a little kid. And the kid is looking up at him with a big silly grin on his face. So happy. So excited to be meeting Santa. But she can keep a secret. She’ll pretend he’s real. She doesn’t want to ruin Christmas for everyone. Not all kids lost their best friend this year. Let them be a child a little while longer.

Her mom lets go of her hand, and she walks up the stairs to Fake Santa’s chair. No way she’s sitting on this guy’s lap after, like, a _thousand_ other kids. The germs! The lice! She sticks out her hand as a greeting, to be polite.

“Hi, Santa. I’m…”

“Franny. I know.”

“How did you know that?”

“I’m Santa, of course. It’s my job to know.”

“Ah.” Shakes her head. “Uncle Max.”

“Uncle Max?”

“Well, if you were _really_ Santa, you’d know about my Uncle Max. He’s the one who told you my name.”

“Oh, I know Uncle Max. Funny fellow. Quiet, but funny. But he didn’t tell me your name.”

“Sure, ok.”

“Franny.” He lowers his voice and leans down. “You don’t believe in Santa, do you?”

“Nope,” she whispers back.

“Ah. Well don’t tell, ok? I don’t want to lose my job.”

She chuckles. “And the kids will be sad.”

“Yes, they probably would be very disappointed.”

She takes a second to check this guy out. He looks young, for a Fake Santa. But his eyes are smiley and blue. And his cheeks are rosy. His beard is _totally_ fake. But he seems nice enough. And kind of familiar. Sure, she’ll play along.

“So,” she says. “What now?”

“Well, I guess you could tell me what you want for Christmas.”

“Hmmm, a puppy?” Total softball.

“Oh, Franny. You can do better than that.”

“Ummm, a Nerf Gun?”

“Challenging gender stereotypes. I like it. But still not very original.”

“How about a car?”

“Well now you’re just being silly. Really think about it, Franny. This may be your one chance to talk to a real Fake Santa. What do you want more than anything in the world?”

She considers for a second. “More than anything?”

“Yes. More than anything.”

She lets herself think. Really hard. If she could have anything, do anything, see anything, what would she want? More than anything… “I don’t want to say. I can’t say.”

“Can’t?” Fake Santa looks back at her, actually seeming like he really cares.

“Well, in our family we don’t talk about it much. Because it makes us sad.”

“If you don’t want to share, that’s fine. I respect that. You should always stand up for yourself, Franny. But if you want to talk, I will listen.”

She looks more closely at his face. “You don’t treat me like I’m a kid. He didn’t either.”

“Who didn’t?”

“Quinn.” As she says his name out loud, she feels her eyes start to burn. Her heart starts to beat really fast. It’s not often that she gets to talk to someone other than Hop about Quinn.

“Do you want to tell me about him?”

“I do.” She comes a little closer, still not sitting on his lap, but eye to eye with him now. Close enough to see the lines on his face.

“He was a friend. A very good friend. An adult, not a kid. And he took care of me. Of us, my mom and me.”

“Did something happen to him?”

“He died.” And she feels the tears coming, the ones she’s held in for so long. “Everyone knows about it, and it made everyone very sad. You may have seen it on tv?”

“I don’t watch much television these days.”

“They talked about how he saved a very important person. But he was my friend. And I don’t care about that. I just want him back.” She tries to wipe away the tears with the palm of her hand, but there are too many, and she can’t stop them from coming. And she can’t stop the words either.

“He was big and strong. But nice, too. When I talked to him, he listened to me. He didn’t play on his phone, or… He asked about my feelings. He asked about my day at school. And he remembered what I told him. He was sad a lot, and acted kind of strange sometimes... But he took care of Mommy too. And she smiled and laughed a lot more when he was around.”

She wanted to keep talking, but she didn’t know what else to say. Wasn’t sure there was anything else to say. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

She looks up at him, asking for help. “What would you have said to him,” he asks, “if you could have said goodbye?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, I guess.”

“What if you pretend I’m him, Franny. Pretend I’m Quinn, use your imagination, and tell me what you would have told him. If you want.”

She blocks out the people and the noise around her, the Christmas lights and decorations, and looks straight into his eyes. So blue, so kind, so familiar. He isn’t just Fake Santa anymore. And it feels real. Like they’re back in her home. In her tv room. Talking and playing. She feels she can trust him. She lays her hand on his shoulder.

“Are you safe, Quinn?”

“Yeah, I’m safe.”

“I miss you. I miss you so much, and I wish I could see you again someday. Please come back. It’s not the same at home without you.” She’s starting to cry again and can’t go on.

“Franny,” he says. Holding her little face in his hand. “I miss you too. You are a strong and beautiful girl, and I am so sorry I won’t be around to see the person you will become.”

“I’ll never forget you, Quinn.”

“I’ll never forget you, either.” She sees his eyes start to tear up as well.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

The sounds of the store start to come back. Her mom walks up from behind, and it’s not just the two of them anymore. “Ok, Franny, we really have to get going.”

“Wait, Mommy,” she says. Not quite ready to say goodbye. Not wanting this to end. She wipes her new tears away and turns around, knowing she can’t let her mom see. “You have to wish for something as well. You have to tell Santa your name!”

Carrie looks at the two of them. Something has clearly happened. She’s been out of earshot so she doesn’t know what, and she’s not sure she likes it. But she knows they won’t be getting out of here anytime soon if she doesn’t play along.

“I’m Carrie,” she says extending her hand.

He takes her hand and shakes it. “Mathison. I know.” And smiles coyly.

Carrie is taken aback, thrown off. Forcefully yanks her hand away. “Enough!” she says. “This is insane. Literally insane.” She picks Franny up and pulls her away from him. “Let’s find Max, Franny. We’re going.”

“But Mommy…”

“Now!” she says, too loudly. She drags Franny off the pedestal and past the line of children waiting.

“No!” Franny shouts, and yanks her hand out of her mother’s grip. “Wait!” she yells, running back to the front of the line. She jumps into his lap and throws her arms around his neck, holding tight. And he hugs her back, just as tight.

“I love you, Quinn,” she whispers.

He whispers in response, “I love you too, Franny.”

She backs away and stares into his silly Fake Santa face one more time. Smiles and laughs at the image before her. “Goodbye, till next year.”

“Till next year,” he says.

She runs back to her mom, grabbing her hand again. As she walks away she turns around, and he salutes. And she smiles again, giving a small secret wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a second chapter!


	2. I Can’t Tell You Why

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always liked this song, and it reminds me a bit of these two. It’s an old one. At the risk of being overly sentimental, I’ll share a few lines of it here:
> 
>  
> 
> Look at us baby, up all night  
> Tearing our love apart  
> Aren't we the same two people who live  
> through years in the dark?  
> Ahh...  
> Every time I try to walk away  
> Something makes me turn around and stay  
> And I can't tell you why

She’s lying on the floor, unsure how long she’s been there, knowing it’s long enough that her right arm is numb, right hip is sore. An awful taste in her mouth, like bile. A pounding in her head. She can tell it’s still night, because when she opens her eyes, just barely, it’s still dark out. But other than that, she has no clue. And the time before, how she got here, is just a black hole.

Her eyes are adjusting to the darkness, so she opens them wider. She sees another figure across from her, her mirror image, lying on the floor against the opposite wall, staring back blankly. Him again.

She uses her left arm to push herself up, feeling dizzy from the effort. The figure mimics her movements, pushing itself up with its right arm, still staring back intensely. Not questioning, just watching.

“Carrie,” it says.

As she finally reaches an upright position, her hand brushes against a glass, gently knocking it over. Wine spills on the floor, quickly creating a puddle. She picks up the glass, sets it upright. Then thinks again, picks it up, and hurls it at the now seated figure.

The figure moves to its right, and the glass just misses, shattering against the wall.

“Carrie,” it says again.

“Go the fuck away!”

The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t seem fazed by her actions. Just remains where it sits.

“I said, ‘Go away!’ Next time, I won’t miss.”

“You always miss,” the figure responds, smiling slightly.

She reaches for her glass again, forgetting for a moment that it’s no longer there. Stupid move. But the bottle isn’t far away, so she grabs it and takes a big gulp directly from it, closing her eyes tightly as she does. Hoping that when she opens them again, the figure will be gone. But as usual, when she opens her eyes, it’s still there.

“I saw you, with Franny today.”

“So now you’re spying on us in public as well.”

“She misses me.”

“She barely knew you.” Thinking maybe if she’s cruel enough, it’ll just leave.

“She’s worried about you, Carrie.”

“She’s five. She’s lucky if she remembers what day it is.”

“ _I’m_ worried about you.”

Carrie scoffs. Takes another drink from the bottle. The last thing she needs is her subconscious, or whatever this thing is, stepping outside its lane. Taking on the role of her guardian, instead of knowing its place as a shield. She’s been trying to get rid of this thing, this figure, since it first began appearing several months ago. It used to be she just saw it in her dreams, first as a lifeless body, then as a haunting spirit. But lately it has been coming to her at night before she is even asleep. Initially it didn’t talk, just stared back, sometimes seeming to watch over her, at times silently judging her. Recently it began speaking to her. And then she to it. She talked to her psychiatrist about adjusting her medication, without letting on what was really occurring, but it isn’t helping. Things are just getting worse. Maybe it’s time to try a different tactic. Maybe she should just fully engage with it, beat it at its own game.

“I’m fine. Look at me.” As she says this, she realizes how ridiculous she sounds. “God, I’m so drunk.”

The figure continues to stare back, a sad smile on his face. His features becoming clearer, even as she continues to push him away.

“What do you want from me?” she asks. 

“I don’t want anything from you, Carrie.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?” But she thinks she knows the answer to that question. “Look, I’m trying to move on. Your being here isn’t making it any easier.”

“And what you’re doing is?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re sleeping your way through every bar in Manhattan, fucking every guy you meet.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“You’re seeping in alcohol, Carrie. You smell of it even when you’re sober.”

“You’d do the same thing.”

The figure seems taken aback by this. His jaw twitches in a way that still seems so familiar. Score one for her.

“I thought I didn’t mean anything to you.”

She decides to go with a lie. “You don’t. You didn’t.”

“Then why, Carrie?”

The eternal question. Stalling for time. “Why what?”

“Why are you destroying yourself over this?”

It’s a valid point, and even in her state, she knows this.

“Look, you _know_ you meant something to me. I took you into my home. I gave up my child for you.”

“You didn’t even check my pulse.”

He says it calmly, as a statement of fact. But she can sense the emotion underneath. It hurt him. She’s starting to get the upper hand.

“You wanted to die. Remember? ‘Let me go?’ ‘There’s nothing here, there never was?’” She uses air quotes, mocking him. “You can’t take that back. You can’t pretend that never happened.”

“And so you chose to believe that?”

“I didn't _choose_ to believe anything. You didn't _ask_ my opinion. I gave you what you wanted. I let you go.”

“But then you still haven’t answered my question, Carrie. Why are you destroying yourself over this?”

She’s not sure how they came around to this again, and she’s getting frustrated. “Look, you’re _my_ hallucination, ok? I get to control what you do, what you say, when you come and go…”

“Then why am I still here?” he interrupts, seeming frustrated himself. “You say you let me go, but you’re letting me control your life.”

“Control my life?” She rolls her eyes. “I control my life. I have _total_ control. I’m a fucking control machine.”

“Then make me go away.”

Carrie doesn't know what to say.

“Maybe you don't want me to.”

“Have I not made it clear that I do?”

“You know what you're doing just makes me come back stronger.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You're not taking your meds.”

“They make me too tired.”

“You're drinking yourself sick.”

“I like my wine. What can I say.”

“I only come when you've been drinking.”

“An unintended side effect.”

“You keep coming down to this basement. You risk your job. Risk your life. Risk your child!”

“You know, you're a real asshole!” They’re both agitated now. Sitting forward, voices raised.

“Get your fucking shit together, Carrie! That girl needs her mother. If you want to take yourself out, fine. I can't protect you from yourself anymore. I’m not around anymore. But get over it. Get over yourself. Get over me!”

“You really think this is all about you, Quinn? Don't flatter yourself.”

“No, Carrie. I know it’s not about me. It's about you. It always is. But then what _exactly_ is it about, Carrie? Tell me, what is all this shit about?!”

This figure, Quinn, this product of her imagination. It’s angry. It doesn't usually get angry. She’s crossed some kind of line. She tries to think back on what he said, what she said, what she did today. She woke up. She took her meds. She _thinks_ she remembered to take her meds. Took Franny to school. Went to work. Picked Franny up and came home. Normal shit. Normal, boring, daily shit. Except, today, Max wanted to take Franny to see Santa. She thought it was a stupid idea. Franny thought it was a stupid idea. But in the end, it meant something to her. That visit with Fake Santa meant something to Franny. And she scoffed at it, chafed at it. She had taken something that had meant a lot to her daughter, that started to reverse the pain of the last year, the loss of innocence, the loss of a man who could have been her father, and she tried to destroy it. Tried to destroy her child. Tried to destroy her Christmas. And that's what it all came down to.

“I destroy everything I touch, Quinn. That’s what this is about. I’m the one who doesn't have a heart. I destroy everything I care about... No, it's true. What you said earlier, you're right. You were always there for me, to save me from myself. You knew me better than anyone. You knew how crazy I could get, how wrong I could be. But you still trusted me. You trusted me enough to let me make mistakes. And you cared enough to catch me when I fell. I was never that for you, for anyone. I never let myself be that person. And it’s _not_ my condition. I let myself believe that for a long time. That my being bipolar was what fucked me over. But it wasn't that. It was just me. This is just who I am. It’s what I do.”

“Carrie…”

“I’m not done talking…”

“Did you love me?”

It stops her in her tracks. She loses her train of thought for a second. He isn’t asking this in a hurtful way. He’s not angry with her anymore. But the question hurts just the same. She tries to push back. “I’m not sure that’s really relevant here. What’s your point? I’m not sure it matters.”

“So, answer the question.”

“It’s not a simple yes or no.”

“Actually, it kind of is.”

But it's not. And it's a question she's been asking herself for a long time. So she responds in the truest way she knows: “Not in the way you wanted me to love you… Not in the way you deserved.”

“So the answer is ‘no.’”

“Or maybe the answer is ‘yes.’” She still doesn't know. After all this time. And he's dead now. The answer doesn't matter. It doesn't change things. Saying it won't hurt him. But it might hurt her. 

“You were the closest thing... But somehow I couldn't bring myself to love you. Because I knew I would hurt you.”

“I could have lived with that.”

“But I couldn’t.”

The figure is starting to fade. And this time, she doesn’t want it to. As much as it pains her, as crazy as it makes her feel, it’s all she has left of him. Part of her knows if she figures this out, if she learns how to grieve, how to say goodbye, how to let go, he will finally be gone. And he won’t be back. 

“Promise me, Carrie.”

“Promise what?”

“Promise me you'll get on with your life. Find a father for Franny. Find a love for yourself.”

“I can't promise that.”

“Live the life I imagined for us with someone else.”

“I don't want someone else, Quinn. I want you.”

“It's too late. I'm gone.”

She's starting to panic. She knows he's leaving again, like all the other times. And she's not just seeing it happen. She's sensing it physically too. It's as if someone is reaching down and sucking any warmth that's left out of the room, any light. Her heart is racing. She can't breathe. The blood is rushing out of her head and down into her arms and legs, her hands and feet. There’s a physical pain, a literal shock that goes through her body. Her eyes are closed, and she hadn’t even realized it. And now she's afraid to open them. Afraid of what she'll see. Afraid he won't be there. Afraid of what will be there if he is. She remembers the moment she heard the rifle shots shatter the glass, felt the front seat ricochet against her side, heard the soft muffled sound as his body took the bullets. Felt the car slow, then stop. Knowing what she'd find when she looked up again, barely finding the strength to raise her head, lift her body, look into the front seat. And there it was. A lifeless Quinn, covered with blood, his soul gone and his body left behind. Broken, empty. To never look in her eyes again. To never say her name. And it's the same pain now that she couldn't let on that she was feeling at the time. That she still lives all the time, over and over. 

She’s not sure she can sense her body anymore, not sure she can take it anymore. She's clawing at her face, pulling at her hair. Screaming and crying. Banging her head against the wall. 

He sees her, and he starts to come closer. He scoots across the floor to the other side, just in front of her. She senses the movement despite everything, settles a bit, and opens her eyes. They stare into each other, holding that look for a long moment. He's close to her now, closer than he's ever been before. He's close enough that she can touch him and so she does, clutching his shirt with her fists, pulling him closer. But he takes her hands, pushes them back into her lap. Uses his other hand to hold her head in place, not allowing her to turn away.

She’s calmer now, but still crying. He’s so close, and so still. She sees him clearer than she’d ever seen him. Every scar, every angle. Every imperfection. All the shades of blue.

She goes to lift her hand, and he lets her this time. She touches his face softly, then slides it down to his heart and holds it there.

Gives him a soft smile, and now he's crying too.

“There’s so much we shared, but so much we never got a chance to. There are so many things I wanted to know. About you. So many questions I never asked.” And she realizes as she's saying it that it's true. “I never even knew your real name.”

And with that, she starts to slide to the floor. He catches her, moves to her side, and lifts her into his lap, into his arms. She’s clutching his shirt again. And she knows he’s able to do what he always really wanted to.

Her eyes are closed again, and she’s whispering now. He can’t quite hear what she’s saying. She’s not entirely sure either. And she knows she probably won’t remember this in the morning. But, here, she is finally able to give them what they always wanted to give each other, in the way only they knew how.


End file.
